


A Dragon-Sized Problem

by musicmillennia



Series: The Unusuals [7]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragon Riders, Alternate Universe - Dragons, BAMF Alice, BAMF Constance, BAMF Ladies Really, BAMF Margeurite, BAMF Ninon, Bisexuality, Genderfluid Character, Louis is Actual Five Year Old and Everyone Knows It, Minor Character Death(s), Multi, Physical Abuse, Soul Bond, Verbal Abuse, canon character death(s), pansexuality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-04-07 17:22:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4271601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicmillennia/pseuds/musicmillennia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Rating and Archive Warnings pending due to spoilers. However, I will say there is NO Non- or Dub-Con.)</p><p>In which Alice cannot be a soldier's wife, but she can be a soldier; Queen Anne and Athos are beset by two dragons and Riders too stubborn for anyone's good; Treville is a Dragon Whisperer for a reason; and everything goes downhill when Margeurite de Rochefort finds something she should never have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Festival, Day 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo lots of relationships. It looks worse than it actually is, promise :D
> 
> If you read my Dragon Riders 'verse, then let me tell you this is not the same. People who were people in there could be dragons, and vice versa. Other things have changed as well, but I will not spoil that.
> 
> Brief intro to the chapter: basically exposition. Hope you have fun anyway!

As soon as her crepe comes off, Alice attends Paris' Hatching Festival.

Not for the same reasons as everyone else attends, to see the Riders and dragons, but because the color black is not allowed; superstitions and omens scare even the King when it concerns France's greatest assets. To make this festival especially popular is the fact that it only occurs once every five years in peacetime. Alice's thirst for laughter and smiles will not tolerate her missing the fresh air, celebration, and song.

As is the fashion, Alice has three new dresses made for each day of the festival, the colors matching her favorite Element or the design after her favorite Sigil. She has neither, so she chooses the Healing Sigil for her finally coming out of mourning. Today's costume is one large ream of soft pink fabric that wraps around her in copious folds like a bandage; after consulting her jeweler, she wears a necklace and earrings of chrysoprase, a gem of which she has never heard but is told helps with healing wounds. She likewise has smaller stones of the same kind weaved into her bun.

The festival's grounds are naturally near the nests just outside of the city walls and open to all. However, to witness the actual hatching one must have a Rider's invitation. Since Alice is only attending for the games and the laughter, she has no need for one. Captain Gaudet sur Labarge sends her a hand-written slip anyway; a suitor's gift that she would rather not encourage and so is left in her drawer before she sets out to her carriage.

She takes no chaperone, which earns a couple significant looks as she disembarks for the entrance. Alice keeps her eyes ahead. Countless off-white tents and smiling attendees await her beyond those looks.

Beyond those tents is the arena, where dragons can take part in various races and contests while humans cheer them on. A bit too much excitement for Alice after so long without it; she will not stray from the tents today.

Heart lighter than it has been for months, Alice chooses one at random.

 

Over in the King and Queen's private tent, a lady-in-waiting is retrieved by her husband, an advisor to the throne. The Queen gives her leave, wishing her and the advisor a pleasant time.

The lady-in-waiting--Margeurite--suppresses a wince with practiced ease as her husband--the Comte de Rochefort--digs his fingers into her arm as soon as the tent flap falls.

"And which egg is to be yours?" he asks with false kindness, not once looking at her as she does not look at him. At her small gasp of fear, his grip tightens. "Did you think I would not find out about your little petition to the Queen? Answer the question."

Margeurite swallows, throat suddenly dry. "O-one of the-the Dragon Whisperer's pride and joys. Her M-Majesty cannot become a Rider, so I thought it would be a pleasant surprise for you, my love."

Rochefort yanks her behind a nearby tree, mindful of the courtiers and their tenacious eavesdropping. No one hears him then as he slams her against a tree and growls savagely, "A Candidate must be unmarried,  _wife_."

Blinking back the pain, she replies in a choked whisper, "I am a favorite of the Her Majesty and a trusted advisor's wife. An-an exception can be made."

No exception can truly be made, especially for the special dragon in question. If the creature is to be bred successfully in the future, xe could not have a Rider unable to likewise join with xir mate's Rider. Margeurite is counting on this; the Queen is as well. Rochefort is liked only by the King.

Rochefort's eyes narrow, signalling she has been caught in her lie. Why must she be so terrible at it?

Fortunately for dear Margeurite, Rochefort does not seem angered. No, she knows that look: calculating. What could he possibly be scheming now of all moments? Margeurite dreads to think.

Eyes still far away, Rochefort asks in a low tone, "Why does the Queen wish me unmarried?"

Margeurite stiffens; a terrible idea forms in her mind, one that could hasten her towards her hour of freedom. This time, Rochefort would not detect her lie, so eager would he be to take it as nothing but the absolute truth. Yet she couldn't--she mustn't! Her soul is already so tainted with misdeeds...unless...

Another idea forms, one that could balance such an awful lie. The very notion of this breaks her heart--indeed it will likely break her arm, at the least--but she takes it as penance.

Conclusion reached, Margeurite murmurs, "Her Majesty has confided in me. She--desires you." Rochefort's eyes spark. "Because she cares for me, she expressed how guilty she felt for her wishing to be with you. So the plan was suggested by me to assign me to an egg meant as a gift to the Queen, become the hatchling's Rider on her behalf. We would be forced to part, and Her Majesty could approach you at last." He stares at her in blatant shock. It is the most positive emotion she has ever received from him; even his iron grip on her arm recedes. Encouraged, Margeurite adds, "Of course you will keep the finances our marriage has granted you. I will not need them, after all."

A pregnant silence passes. Then Rochefort gives his wife a curt nod and walks away.

Margeurite collapses into tears.

 

_  
_

All Riders, even those who are Permanently Grounded, must attend their regiment's Hatching Festival. Never-mind how the forced participants must feel, witnessing Candidates find their other halves when theirs is gone; it is an honorable thing, an inescapable duty.

Athos downs the rest of the bottle. Where his Anne used to reside so perfectly in his mind is a gaping hole, pulsing like a festering wound. At least with this agony, none of his comrades breathe a word about his excessive drinking. If anything they look up to him in awe; five years nearly to the date Anne has been gone, and her Rider still lives. There is a reason Athos receives a Distinguished seat near the King, a reason he is the only Permanently Grounded soldier still standing.

They call him brave, loyal, amazing. Athos calls this repentance. Calls himself unspeakable things. He avoids his own reflection, opting to stare at the inside of his wrist instead, where a perfect rendition of a forget-me-not flower is branded into his skin. Since Anne's death, it has faded with each passing year, soon to be gone just like her. He let her die, did nothing to stop it. The only thing he deserves is to live.

"Athos."

Tréville. The Dragon Whisperer. The closest he has to a friend in this world.

"Forgive the intrusion, but your Captain is asking for you."

Captain Gaudet. Despicable bastard. Anne would have both admired his ruthless efficiency and despised his merciless killing sprees. Athos can almost hear her now, calling their Captain a useless pig,  _how dare His Majesty turn a blind eye?_

Tréville frowns, full of sympathy as the man before him pauses in the middle of buckling on his sword, eyes misting. Zoning--it is happening to Athos more and more frequently. He has made a valiant effort to keep going, better than any the world has ever seen, but at this rate Tréville knows he will not last another year.

"Athos," he bids, gentler. As he feared, Tréville sees the zone is too great; he finishes buckling Athos' belt himself.

Athos returns as the other man fixes his Musketeer's cloak. He opens his mouth to apologize for slipping once again, but Tréville merely shakes his head and ushers him from his tent.

Yet Athos' honor cannot allow the other to leave without knowing how grateful he is for his coming instead of the random recruit Gaudet undoubtedly sent and Tréville intercepted.

Tréville shakes his head again. "Captain Gaudet is awaiting you at the pavilion."

Athos silently inclines his head and starts for the arena. He can only hope he does not zone in front of the King.

 

_  
_

The morning and early afternoon passes in a happy blur Alice. She watches sorcerers' conjuring tricks, dragon jewelers make their wares, adolescent dragons turn their Elements into art. She even wins a small fashion contest, the prize being a handsome--and outrageously expensive--pure silver piece inlaid with a large oval topaz that would be a necklace for a dragon hatchling that fits onto a human as a lovely bracelet.

Now the sun is listing towards the west and most of the festival-goers are cheering in the arena. Alice decides to call for her carriage.

Many whispers had followed her during her eager explorations, accusing her of not caring her husband is dead, of bringing bad luck to the hatchlings due to her status as a widow. Staring down at her new bracelet, Alice finds herself pushing them from her mind.

She is going to enjoy these days. Just for a while, words will not affect her.


	2. Interlude: Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alice has a strange dream. (That's it; that's the chapter.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Actually a plot point, however short. :) hope I describe it well enough!

_Alice never had this dream before; usually she is her younger self, running about her father's estate, reliving her happiest memory and deepest desire._

_Tonight she is her current age, standing barefoot on a bare field of fresh soil. She wears nothing but a thin slip, her hair tumbling past her shoulders. A thick fog has descended, so Alice cannot see more than a few feet in front of her. She knows not how long she stands there in confusion, wondering what to do and what could have triggered this dream._

_When imagining a new scene fails to change this eerie landscape, Alice takes a breath and starts walking. She does not get far before something brushes against the underside of her foot. She startles back, only to see it is a dirt-covered letter addressed to her._

_The seal is unmistakable: Captain Gaudet sur Labarge's invitation. But why--?_

_Wait. What is that?_

_Something glows in the distance, penetrating the fog--light brown, orange hues. Alice runs towards it, but just as she thinks she is about to reach it,_ she wakes in a cold sweat.

"What on Earth...?"


	3. Festival, Day 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos has some Problems. We meet someone Alice is going to get to know very well, although first impressions could go a little better. Oh, and her entire future is flipped on its head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter a beautiful gem--and no, it's not Margeurite, we've already met her, though she's in this chapter as well. (Margeurite is precious to me and you will have to pry her from my loving arms with a chainsaw and glitter--and even then I will fight you.) Another gem will join this gem. Just lots of gems and Athos' Problems! :D
> 
> Hey! I have a drinking game for you--or, if you want a work out, take a drink/do 2 sit-ups every time you see the word 'dragon'! (I suggest you do the second; I would hate to be responsible for someone's alcohol poisoning.)

The King wishes to look upon the eggs today. Athos has no choice but to join the company; his polite excuses fall on deaf ears.

"Surely the man known as Dragon-Hearted wishes to see new dragons?" His Majesty (most certainly) pouts, "Tréville tells me his hand-selected batch is truly something to behold, and they've not even hatched yet!"

Both Tréville and the Queen send him apologies with their eyes as they too fail to convince the King to excuse him. Even Gaudet winces on his behalf.

"Of course he will come! He can withstand a few eggs!"

Athos sighs through his nose and places himself beside Tréville; if he zones, the Dragon Whisperer can force him back. Taking a physical approach is not healthy for the Rider's psyche, but this is the King.

No choice.

Anne's absence roars in Athos as soon as the party enters the nesting area, a large enclosure blocked from prying eyes by fifty-foot stone walls. Each nest contains no more than three eggs each, as there is no biological need driven by war to produce more offspring. Following this, only four nests occupy the enclosure this year, with only the most beautiful dragons as the dams and sires. King's orders--no choice.

No choice.

No--"Athos."

Athos forces himself to breathe. He gives a near-imperceptible nod of thanks to Tréville.

The Whisperer's designated nest is situated in the center. Three eggs rest in the straw, each from different pairs. Tréville is well-loved among Paris' dragons; they trust him to raise their hatchlings well, going so far as to consider his regard an honor.

Anne had not been among Tréville's chosen few. Her progenitors were feral Shadow and Wind Elements. Still they found each other, he on mission, she abandoned and half-starved under the thumb of a vile man named Sarazin.

 _You have to help me,_ was the first thing she'd said to him.  _Please!_

"Athos!"

He blinks, finding himself staring at an obsidian egg close to Anne's shade, a couple yards from Tréville's nest. That makes two zones in less than two minutes; his scraps of sanity are fading fast among these eggs. From the adult dragons' looks alone Athos knows how bad his situation is becoming.

"Forgive me, Your Majesty," he says mechanically, turning to the Whisperer's Nest, "I saw an egg similar to...my dragon's hide."

Instead of finally realizing his mistake, the King brightens. "Would you like that one? I should think that little dragon would love to have a man of your reputation as its Rider!"

Athos' breath freezes in his lungs. The Queen looks at him, her eyes wide, while Gaudet cannot stop a grunt of surprise.

"Your Majesty," Tréville says gravely, "a dragon is irreplaceable in a Rider's soul. With respect, to even suggest Athos be assigned a new egg is not to be borne."

Borne. Born.  _Athos, what if we had our own hatchling? I could carry the child in my human body; I've seen many females do so._

New egg?  _Swear the nothing will ever come between us._

_Athos._

_Athos!_

"ATHOS!"

Air will not come. Not now, not here, not to her--Anne,  _Anne, please come back!_

 

 

 

That day, Alice dons a white gown with a red sash around her waist with a red cloak, with rubies in her ears and inlaid in the clip holding most of her hair up, with wisps of hair dangling around her ears in lovely curls. Her bracelet may not match the ensemble, but she clasps it on anyway. She arrives at the festival with plans to visit the arena at noon for a race after a morning of exploring more tents.

Her dream has been passed as mere fancy, yet there is a tinge of disquiet in the air around her. Yet she is not the only one who senses this strange disturbance; as Alice walks, she sees how slowly others move, as if they tread on glass; how they keep glancing at their companions, as if others of their party will know why a strange hush has rippled over the crowds. It is far too easy to be swept into that foreboding feeling crawling across one's neck and shoulders like a horde of spiders.

Nerves getting to her, Alice copies her decision yesterday and chooses a tent at random. She pauses in the entrance, her eyes needing a moment to adjust. Unlike the rest of the tents, thick cloth blocks the summer's bright sunshine. Once she can give them a closer inspection, she can see they are richly colored tapestries depicting dragons fighting in battle against humans and other creatures, each illustration detailed enough to make Alice's stomach churn. Violence is not something she revels in like soldiers, which is why she does not associate with dragons beyond events like this festival. A quiet life on the ground is the one for her.

"Is that so?"

Alice gasps in surprise, hand over her chest. In front of her are two green embroidered curtains, and holding them open is a dark-skinned woman with light brown curls and an angular face. Her dress billows around her, dark purple with Latin words sewed into the lack corset in shining bronze thread, implying her preference for the Knowledge Sigil.

"I beg your pardon?" Alice says, covering her fright with a smile.

The woman stalks towards her, languid and sure. "The way you look at my father's tapestries," she says bluntly, words dripping with an accent Alice cannot pinpoint, "I have seen it many times. You do not think yourself capable of a Rider's life."

Alice is not offended, for it is the truth. "I was born to a sheltered existence of wealth and expectations," she agrees, "I could not be a soldier's wife, much less a soldier myself. That world of--violence and mayhem, I am not capable of living in it."

Oddly enough, the woman looks mildly impressed. "You are honest," she says, "others have denied my observation. And your stance--firm, resolute. You have the makings of a Candidate; are you certain you do not have the soul?"

Alice laughs, "I was never Tested, but I think it is quite clear I do not."

"Sometimes it is those who believe themselves undeserving who hold a dragon's egg."

She certainly speaks as if she spends far too much time with Knowledge Sigils. All the more reason not to pursue this debate any further; Alice had made her resolve yesterday about the impact of words during the festival. Any hurt, no matter how old, would not haunt her yet.

So she changes the subject with a curtsy. "Forgive me, where are my manners? My name is Clerbeaux, Alice Clerbeaux. What is yours?"

The woman nods in acknowledgement. "Samara avec Ninon."

Alice freezes. Riders use 'sur' followed by their dragon's name, but 'avec'--"You are a dragon?"

Some dragons, once their Bond has deepened enough, can delve so deep into their Rider's half that they learn how to manipulate their bodies into a humanoid form. Alice has no knowledge of the scientific explanation behind it ("A lady must never be too intelligent" had been her father's exact words), nor had she ever seen it accomplished. Until now, apparently, as Samara puts her fist over her chest and bows in a shortened version of the Musketeers' salute.

"I have never spoken with a dragon before," Alice admits, "it is an honor."

Dragon Samara replies, "The honor is mine, Madame."

Others must have forced her to endure this same conversation countless times; only those in the King's court can socialize with dragons outside of the military, so festival-goers usually meet their first beast up close on these grounds. All the same, Alice would hate to seem so one-dimensional.

"What is it that you do here?" she asks.

Dragon Samara's eyes take a turn about the tent as she explains: "I conduct Testing free of charge."

Alice's lips part in surprise. "Free of charge?" nothing in any part of the world that is not won is free of charge.

Dragon Samara smirks, eyes glinting midnight blue; Alice's heart pounds from instinctual fear. "Only to those who could one day be my comrades."

Ah. "Do you find many of those?"

"This is my first festival not spent in the Bookseller's Tent with my Rider, General Larroque. I held some hope, yet I was disillusioned yesterday: not a single customer was positive." she nods to her curtains, "Would you like to try your hand?"

Alice plasters another smile on, saying, "Thank you for your offer, but I would not wish to add to your list of failures." Who needs extra money anyway when you were the dragon of General Larroque?

Dragon Samara slowly cocks her head, scrutinizing Alice with slightly narrowed eyes. Her stare is intense enough to push Alice's back to a tapestry. The next moment, however, she abruptly pushes a curtain back, revealing an ornate table and chairs.

"Madame," she says, sweeping her arm over the tableau, "even if I am wrong about you, I will Test you free of charge today. Please take a seat."

Alice's heart now pounds for an entirely different reason. Perhaps, for a moment, she pictures herself on a dragon's back, about to take off running (she does not mind heights; she'd had too many adventures as a child for that. Simply put, her lifestyle preferences befit her preferences for a dragon: firmly on the ground, but not stagnant). What if she could have that? What if--oh no, what if she could have that? She would be thrust into a regiment faster than she could work up a valid refusal.

Alice hesitates; Dragon Samara rolls her eyes.

"Do not allow your fears to rule your life," the Sigil scolds, "if I had done that, I would have been dead a long time ago. Sit."

 

Unsurprisingly, His Majesty is not only undeterred from seeing Tréville's eggs, he turns a petulant pout at Athos' still form on the ground and demands what on Earth his soldiers had been thinking, allowing this weakened man into the enclosure? This incident will bother the dragons!

"Remove him at once!" he commands to the two other guards who accompanied the gathering. "Captain Gaudet, I had expected more from your men. Athos is supposedly a venerable Lieutenant--one of your best!"

Gaudet bows his head, having prudence enough to say nothing beyond a formal apology. Tréville, on the other hand, cannot allow this slight against his friend to pass. He is not of the military, and while a French citizen has the protection of more dragons than both the Red Guards and Musketeers combined; therefore the King is a fair target for his anger.

"Your Majesty," he snaps, "The Queen and myself both warned you the effect this visit would have on Athos! To walk among the eggs is a well-known and potent trigger I do not doubt you were taught--your own mother and father were a Rider-Dragon pair! When he returns to his senses-- _if_ he returns--I would advise Your Majesty to give him a personal apology."

The Queen's hand reaches for Margeurite, who gladly takes comfort as much as she gives it. She has been in Her Majesty's service for three years now, but she has never seen anyone dare speak to the King in such a manner, let alone the controlled Dragon Whisperer. Indeed, the King simply gapes at Tréville as if the man has grown a second head.

The anger dissipates as quickly as it had reddened Tréville's cheeks. Straightening his shoulders, the man reaches his nest and motions to the eggs. "Now then. I hope Your Majesty will be pleased."

Margeurite can barely contain an exclamation of awe as the Queen and her ladies-in-waiting are permitted to make a loose circle around the nest. Being of the court, they have all seen many dragon eggs before, but these three surpass even the previous King's own shell. The one closest to Margeurite has an ocean blue base with horizontal lines of purples, golds, and greens lined with black, bringing out the other hues beautifully; the second is gunmetal grey with teardrops of bronze, orange, and earth brown; the final is smaller than the other two, but no less handsome with a spiral of red starting at the tip of the egg and wrapping around to the bottom over a bright, crystalline green.

In an attempt to ease the tension between the King and Tréville, the Queen says with the utmost sincerity, "I have never seen anything like them. You have outdone yourself, Whisperer."

"It is not my doing, Your Majesty, but the progenitors," Tréville replies just as honestly, "Nevertheless, I thank you on their behalf."

"May I ask which my lady-in-waiting here is to be assigned?"

Margeurite's breath catches as Tréville gently rests his hand on the top of the ocean blue egg, her favorite of the three; she trembles when the Whisperer invites her to touch.

Gently, afraid to crack the egg prematurely--impossible for a human to do, but Margeurite is too enthralled to think in sensible terms--she lays her hand just under Tréville's. The shell warms her hand, smooth like carved marble, and she cannot resist stroking her thumb idly across the surface. Simply touching it overwhelms her; tears spring to her eyes.

"You are most generous," she manages to tell Tréville and Her Majesty, "Words cannot express my gratitude."

But even as she admires the egg, her heart is breaking.

 

 

The dragon's eyes are blazing with warning; Alice dares not disobey. Mouth dry, she slowly makes her way to the table and lowers herself into the nearest chair. She finds her thumb stroking the orange topaz on her bracelet for comfort.  _Even Knowledge Sigils can be wrong_ , she thinks,  _if they were always right, nothing would be worth learning.'_ Samara takes her seat. ' _Please be wrong. I shall never take anything for granted again, just please be wrong!'_ _  
_

Through the din of her racing thoughts comes Dragon Samara's voice: "Your hands, Madame."

Alice takes a breath through her nose and complies. Her nerves are by no means calmed, but her composure has settled. She watches the dragon examine her palms, running a finger down a line or two occasionally. Vaguely, Alice realizes she never learned what being Tested for a Rider's soul entails; she could be doing this wrong!

Unfortunately there is no question Dragon Samara's form is correct. General Larroque is known for her vast library and intellect. Even if Dragon Samara somehow had no prior knowledge of Testing procedure, Larroque would have found it and taught it to her before this tent had been an idea. Alice fights not to let her shoulders slump as the hope is dashed.

Dragon Samara once again interrupts her thoughts with another command: "Lean forward and look me in the eye, Madame."

Her expression is irritatingly neutral, giving away nothing regarding Alice's fate. Reluctantly, Alice allows her to cup her face. Dragon Samara's hands, unlike her own, are over-warm and calloused; not uncomfortable in the least, it is her eyes--now fully draconic, vertical pupils and blue irises--boring into hers that cause Alice's retreating hands to clutch her bracelet. Dragon Samara hums, briefly and in monotone, expression remaining blank as she looks for whatever one looks for to confirm the presence of lack thereof of a Rider's soul.

After another agonizing minute, Dragon Samara pulls back. Alice cannot contain herself any longer.

"Were you wrong,  _Dracona_?" none of her impatience reaches her tone; thank God.

Instead of answering, Dragon Samara asks a question: "What did you dream about last night?"

Taken aback, Alice blurts, "Forgive me, but what does that have to do with the matter at hand?"

"Everything. Please answer the question, Madame."

Perplexed, but still not bold enough to refuse a dragon her request, Alice describes the bizarre dream of the previous night. It does not take long to recount every detail she remembers, from the foggy field of soil to the invitation to the light she almost reached. When she finishes, Dragon Samara's face morphs at last.

The joyous grin causes Alice's insides to plummet.

"Come with me."

 

Is he dying at last, he wonders? Has the world finally decided to rid itself of his tainted existence? The pain in his limbs certainly alludes to a fatal wound.

_I heard you._

What?

_And you are not going anywhere without me._

Unfortunately, when Athos wakes, he will possess no memory of this faint voice, nor the brief peace it had brought to the emptiness in his mind.

 

"Do you know what kind of dragons these eggs will yield?" the Queen asks Tréville once Margeurite returns to her feet.

Tréville replies, "I know for certain that the Comtesse de Rochefort's dragon will most likely be a Healing Sigil, as it is of d'Herblay blood, a line known for their gifts of healing. Certainly a boon for any fortunate Rider, Your Majesty." Margeurite smiles and nods. "As for the other two, I must confess I did not receive them in the traditional sense."

"Whatever do you mean?" Her Majesty asks. Margeurite has always admired her for making any emotion, even curiosity, seem regal.

Tréville takes a slow walk around the nest until he comes to rest across from the Queen and a few of her ladies. Looking at the spiraled egg, he says, "This one I found after a village was ransacked. No doubt Your Majesty recalls the raids on Gascony?" the Queen inclines her head with a delicate frown. "Terrible business. This little one was, I suppose, the runt of the brood; I can never be sure, for Gascony's dragons are known for their smaller eggs and larger fortitude. I found this egg by following the screams of its progenitors and siblings." the company takes in a collective gasp, some ladies putting their fingers over their mouths.

Tréville continues, voice growing heavy: "This one survived only by its sire's body protecting it. I found him still clinging to life after the village's citizens worked to put out the fire. An Earth Element he was, with a powerfully enchanted musket ball in his side and debris covering him from head to tail. His mate was a Wind Element, and she had died long before I could have reached her.

"The sire looked me in the eye. Though he spoke not a word, he gently pushed his last remaining offspring towards me and pressed a talon against my heart. I vowed I would protect this egg with my life; I believe he had been waiting just for that promise, for he embraced death moments after."

Silence reigns over the enclosure. The adult dragons have bowed their heads out of respect for their kin and his devotion to his offspring, while the courtiers and monarchs are at a loss as to how to respond to such a tale.

Margeurite swallows and tests her courage by being the first to speak. "Will this egg be yours then, Whisperer?"

Tréville smiles, though it edges towards a grimace. "If this hatchling inside wishes, I will not hesitate. Beyond that, Madame, I enjoy my job as scholar and breeder of this magnificent species. The day I willingly become a Rider is the day I can successfully speak with a feral dragon."

"Do you believe this can be accomplished?" the Queen asks.

"I have made it my life's work to find out, Your Majesty."

Another lady-in-waiting, a young woman by the name of Vivien Chavigne, points to the grey egg. "What of this one, Whisperer? Did you find this one by happier means?"

Tréville's smile regains its former luster. "Ah," he says, "This one was offered to me in exchange for a handsome sum. Quite worth it, as you can see. However, it was nearly stolen from me the following night by two little urchins."

The ladies giggle. Vivien says, "No doubt to sell it for twice the amount you paid, Monsieur!"

"Yes," Tréville replies, a shade softer. Returning to regular volume, "In any case, you see their efforts were a wasted journey."

"Do you not know anything about its origin, then?" Margeurite asks.

"Only that I found it in Paris. Perhaps once it hatches I can better identify it. For example, French dragons are known for their elongated snouts."

The King seems to finally regain his former humor, for he says, "And do the Spanish ones have stubby feet?"

The courtiers laugh; Tréville does not.

"I would be careful of what you say, Your Majesty," he says, "the d'Herblay line has Spanish blood on the mother's side. Hatchlings can hear more than one may think."

The dragons all growl their own warnings to accompany his. The King is silenced once more; only this time, it is out of fear.

 

The Bookseller's Tent is on the other side of the festival, giving Alice ample time to process the existence of her Rider's soul.

Scholars like the Dragon Whisperer Tréville say the Rider's soul is a unique form of magic all on its own. Most of it is human, but there is a component that dragons recognize inherently as kin. This component is how a Bond forms, tying Dragon and Rider together irrevocably. It is said that Permanently Grounded Riders lose this part of their soul should their dragon die before them or vice versa, to prevent any other Bond to be formed in the severed one's place.

If Alice really does have such a soul--strong and fierce like a dragon, according to legends--she has no idea how to unlock its strength now. At the very least she would settle on her hands to stop their incessant shaking.

Dragon Samara had said that an introduction to a known Rider would be essential to building Alice's credibility as a Candidate. The better her reputation, the more likely she will be able to stand in the front line, so the hatchlings can see her first. General Larroque is one of the best acquaintances to have for this ambition.

The woman herself is even more radiant up close than when Alice has occasionally seen her from afar in public parades and parties. Flawless golden curls cascade from where she has pinned it up, matching beautifully with the gold in her bodice. Her cream skirts have words sewed in, some of which Alice recognizes from books her late husband owned and she sometimes peeked into, like Galileo's  _Dialogue._

When she sees Dragon Samara, her face alights with affectionate surprise. "Dearest, whatever are you doing here?" she asks, taking Dragon Samara's hands, "Have you come to undo the enchantment?"

Enchantment?

Dragon Samara's smile is full of just as much affection. "Not yet,  _hermana_. I have come with good news." she steps back and puts a hand on Alice's elbow. "This is Madame Alice Clerbeaux. She has passed my Testing." _  
_

Suddenly Alice is the target of the entire tent's scrutiny. Only her breeding keeps her composure steady.

General Larroque--although Alice sees her more as a Comtesse without her armor and pauldron--gasps with delight. "Truly? How marvelous! It is always a treat to find a new sister-in-arms. You have my sincere congratulations."

Alice forces her lips to curl into a smile. "Thank you, General," she says, "But I must confess I still have my doubts. Not to discredit your dragon's judgment or ability, of course," she adds hastily when Samara raises an eyebrow, "It is just--my family has never passed Testing."

General Larroque's smile turns mischievous. "Tell me, Madame Clerbeaux," she says, "Did any of the females in your family partake in Testing, or were the males too insecure to allow it?"

Alice contains a surprised laugh; Larroque is also known for her views on equality among all genders, but all the same it is strange to hear her speak of it so boldly.

"I...do not think any females were Tested, no."

"Then there you have it. Perhaps one of your mothers had a Rider's soul. But we can sort out your heritage later; for now, how about a visit to the nests? I am certain Samara wishes to stretch her legs. My lovely assistant Fleur would be more than happy to have some experience running the tent on her own."

Indeed, Fleur is ecstatic. Alice can think of no adequate refusal apart from that, and so Larroque takes her arm and the three women start walking.

Not too long into their journey, Larroque asks Alice, "May I ask what strange dream you had?" at Alice's glance to Dragon Samara, "We have made a pact that any Testers' dreams are kept private unless voluntarily offered. If you do not wish it, I will not ask again."

"No, it is quite alright," Alice says, and once more explains her dream. At the end of her second retelling, she sees Larroque is intrigued.

"That is certainly an interesting one," the General says at length. "It is a rare thing indeed for a Rider to have already identified their dragon."

 

The Queen allows Margeurite to stay behind for a few minutes longer to have a moment with her assigned egg. Tréville and the other dragons likewise honor her request and keep their distance, the former announcing his intent to visit Athos while the latter tend to their broods with deliberate focus.

Before Tréville leaves, Margeurite gains his permission to hold the egg. "It is nearly impossible to break unless you know what you are doing," he tells her, "So do not worry if you lose your grip. Above all else, dragons are strong."

Margeurite is counting on that strength, hoping for it to transfer to her as she takes the egg into her hands. She kisses the shell, then begins to whisper through sudden tears.

 

General Larroque elaborates to a thunderstruck Alice: "The color of the glow in your dream, and the soil: most likely your dragon will be an Earth Element. Think of the fog as your link to your dragon--vague, faint, but present. You could not reach the glow because you have yet to meet your dragon. What you said about the invitation as well...your subconscious mind must have identified with one of the eggs."

Alice swallows, feeling dizzy. "How? I never laid eyes on the eggs."

Samara grins at her. "The General had a similar dream days before my father granted her my egg. He was a Moon Element; the only vision he ever shared with me was my Bond with 'a golden soldier.'"

"If the distance is small enough, two souls can find each other without touch," Larroque adds, giving Samara's hand a brief squeeze.

 

Tréville returns to the enclosure with a heavy frown marring his face. Through his carefully opened mind, the adult dragons whisper their sympathies for the still-unconscious Athos and reassure Tréville himself that the Dragon-Hearted will come back for a while longer.

Margeurite has left, her assigned egg returned to almost its exact spot in the nest. Tréville approves of her; while she has been broken down by her foul husband's abuse, she maintains a quiet inner-strength, undoubtedly from the Rider's soul within. Every lady-in-waiting is Tested upon entering the Queen's service; out of her fellow ladies, Tréville is glad the Comtesse de Rochefort had been the one to pass.

However, there are visitors to greet. Tréville puts aside his musings to kiss Ninon's cheeks and give Samara a courteous nod in greeting. Under the summer sun, Samara's original form glitters dark amethyst purple, light green fins running down the back of her neck. Her wings stretch contentedly, and under them is--ah.

Another woman stands there, white dress tied by a red sash about the waist. She is quite beautiful, for all that she looks close to fainting on the spot.

"Whisperer, allow me to introduce a new Candidate," Ninon states proudly, presenting the woman with a sweep of her hand, "Madame Alice Clerbeaux."

Tréville bows; Madame Clerbeaux curtsies.

"You cannot be married before Candidacy," Tréville reminds them.

"Ah, straight to the point as ever," Ninon laughs. "That is why I like you, Whisperer. However, Madame Clerbeaux is a widow, and has been for quite some time now."

"That is not all," Samara says, drawing all eyes to her, "Her soul has connected with its other half. One of these eggs, it seems."

Tréville's eyebrows shoot up. "Certainly a rare occurrence. Of course it will be impossible to be sure until your dragon hatches, but this does grant you access to the enclosure for tomorrow's hatching."

Alice speaks then, her voice a strangled murmur. "Whisperer," she says, "A moment, if you please?"

 

Night falls. Alice eats a sparse dinner, unable to consume more than a few spoonfuls of soup. Her mind is reeling, spinning, convulsing--a chaotic web of thoughts that only grow louder as she takes in her lovely home and its peaceful rooms.

If she forms a Bond tomorrow, her life will end. Even worse, the unfortunate dragon to which she has apparently connected will be chained to a Rider whose thoughts are occupied with the latest fashions and domestics, not with war and violence.

Yet it cannot be avoided. General Larroque is coming herself to accompany Alice to the festival tomorrow. Under her and Dragon Samara's watchful eye, no escape can be devised without a blunt--and undoubtedly offensive--explanation.

Alice curls up under bedclothes, yet she cannot find sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no, poor Athos and Alice. But hey, you've met the other guys at least. And, next chapter's Hatching Daaaay! :D I hope you guys are excited--no? Really? Aw, come on, dragons happen!...eh, worth a shot.


	4. Festival, Day 3: Hatching Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tréville's dragons hatch, and nothing will ever be the same. (Beware Precious!Margeurite Whump.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we are, chapter 4! I really hope you guys are enjoying this so far! This one is short. Finished at like 5 AM. All-nighter. Brain's not really working right now.
> 
> Anyway, I think you all know the upcoming Rider-Dragon pairings by now, especially after my descriptions last chapter and the pairing list in the tags, but I ask you to please practice your shock face as a personal favor to me. Tell you what! If you put "(Shocked Face) WHOA I DID NOT SEE THAT COMING!" in your comment, plus a brief description of yourself or an OC in parentheses, I will write that into the story as an extra/random soldier somewhere in the plot that I will not say because that would spoil a lot of Things. Oh, and be sure to say whether that character is a Musketeer or Red Guard--it is important. For reasons.
> 
> Quick note: Alice's dress in this chapter is the same one from 1x08. Y'know, the one that Porthos was all heart-eyes over? No, not the black one--the other one. Yeah, you got it!
> 
> But I'm going to stop rambling now, because we have dragons to hatch! Happy reading! :D

Athos' eyes open to his Distinguished Guest's Tent, the sun penetrating the cloth's seams. By the light's position, Athos can guess the hour to be close to noon; the dragons will hatch in two hours.

So many new beginnings, he muses. He is an end that should have been cut long ago.

A quiet groan escapes him as he attempts in vain to banish his melancholy thoughts. Action has always been better for dispelling them; he forces his heavy limbs to sit up on his small cot, then to stand.

His doublet, boots, and weapons are neatly draped across a nearby chair, all of which he dons in precise, trained movements. Next, Athos retrieves his hat, running a quick finger across the brim.

He will need to be present for the hatching today, unless the King can actually find it in himself to be sensible for once. Perhaps it would not be remiss to wander the festival alone for a while, get lost in the revelry if he can.

It is only after he exits his tent that he realizes. All at once, his heart seems to freeze, and his steps falter. For a few minutes, he can only stare at the ground in blatant shock.

His mind is calm.

 

Alice washes her face with cold water before picking a dress that could allude to the Earth Element if one chooses to see it as such. Delicate, soft cream that feels like silk, with a lower collar than some of her other dresses to make room for pearls. It matches her bracelet too, an added bonus.

As her maid assists with her hair, Alice tries not to think about how this could be the last time she sits in the tranquil quiet of her home.

 

Margeurite picks a dark blue dress that sparkles in the sunlight, pulling her hair into a simple style.

On her way to the Queen's side, her husband's hand clamps on her arm. She tries in vain not to shiver as his breath ghosts against her ear.

"Do not disappoint me," he whispers.

As soon as he is out of sight, she clasps her hands and prays for strength.

 

**Down the Rabbit Hole  
(Two-thirty, Nesting Enclosure)**

Queen Anne's relief had been nearly overwhelming when she learned of Athos' excused absence from the hatching. The poor man had deserved none of Louis' scorn--oh, another egg is cracking!

This is only her second time witnessing a hatching, so Anne is still easily distracted from any brooding thoughts. A blessing in its own way, as a monarch's thoughts are always plagued with the responsibilities of their crown. A distraction such as this is always welcomed.

None of Tréville's eggs have hatched yet, though she hopes for Margeurite's sake that the blue egg breaks sooner rather than later--ah, a Fire Element. Common, yes, but a substantial boost to France's military strategies.

After a half hour's time, seven of the twelve eggs have successfully hatched with no apparent defects or other medical problems. Official Bonding will begin once every hatchling is present and relatively used to being outside of their shells.

A murmur ripples through the crowd. Anne soon sees why: the grey egg with its teardrops of color is cracking.

Most all dragon hatchlings ease out of their shells, taking their time to meet the world after so long inside their warm eggs. This one, however, seems all too eager to see the sunshine; the egg does not crack so much as shatter, pieces of shell flying apart, some hitting the other two eggs with dull, hollow  _thunk_ s. Before this is even done, the hatchling is bounding about the nest and gurgling.

Sandy brown in color with dark purple eyes, the hatchling is a sweet, bulbous little thing with a thumping tale and springing steps. By its color and lack of wings, it appears to be an Earth Element. Most likely its hide will darken with age, as is common for dragons.

The audience coos quietly at the sight, until the gurgles start to form words.

"Ah..." the hatchling's voice is that of a child, a boy's, "Ahl...Ahl-l-l..." it snorts, suddenly frustrated. "Ahl-l-l-l-l....Ahl-Ahl--Alice!"

One of the Candidates faints.

The hatchling gives an alarmed squeak and scrambles over the nest. He lands flat on his belly, but that does nothing to dampen his haste. Moments before he reaches the Candidate, a Healing Sigil revives her with a touch of his snout.

She gasps awake, shoving onto her knees to look at the hatchling, eyes wide and unblinking. The hatchling, now vibrant again, trills another "Alice!"

Louis calls to Tréville, "Is it normal for a hatchling to speak so soon, Tréville?"

The Whisperer can only shake his head.

Meanwhile, the Candidate--Alice, apparently--is snuggled by what is now undoubtedly her hatchling. Under the onslaught of both Bond and open affection, her shock quickly turns into tentative giggles, followed soon after by carefree laughter.

"Porthos!" she shouts jovially, and wraps her arms around her hatchling.

The crowd cheers.

 

 **Something New  
** **(Two-fifty)**

After the early Bonding, Anne expects the other hatchlings to participate. However, they all meander about in their nests under the fond gazes of their progenitors without so much as a glance at the rows of Candidates. The audience pays the hopefuls no mind either, fixated instead on Tréville's remaining eggs.

As if feeling the anticipation, the blue egg begins to crack.

Anne's heart lifts. She motions with a smile to Margeurite, who nods and disembarks from the pavilion's shade. Once her lady has secured a Bond, she will be safe, though Anne will miss having her so close. It is for the best; Margeurite deserves so much better than a vile man like Rochefort.

Margeurite reaches the egg, skirts pooling around her as she kneels down beside the nest.

This hatchling parts the shell as if it is a curtain and the world is its stage. It shakes its head and limbs free of the rest of the fragments, then stretches like a cat after a long nap. Its scales are blue, like its egg, with flowing horizontal stripes of cream and light red running from the edges of its chin to the tip of its twitching tail. Its eyes are a wide, expressive brown, blinking at the afternoon sunlight. At Margeurite.

They stare at each other in silence, though an understanding seems to pass between them. Anne's eyebrows furrow slightly when she sees Margeurite give her hatchling a small, jerky nod.

The next moment, the hatchling bumps its nose against Margeurite's arm and leaps from the nest in one graceful, fluid motion. More murmurs through the crowd.

These murmurs turn into a dull roar when the hatchling reaches the pavilion, using its wings to help its little body hop onto the platform.

When the hatchling climbs onto Anne's lap, the crowd is on its feet and shouting loudly enough to rouse all of France.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But what about the third egg? You'll have to wait and see :D
> 
> (You don't actually have to feign shock. Like I said, it's like 5 AM and I've been writing for a few hours when I started this chapter, about 2 seconds after I posted Chapter 3; brain resorted to terrible humor. You can still leave that description though, if you want. OH, and maybe you could add a dragon's as well? I do actually need a few soldiers in upcoming chapters for Reasons. Thank you so, so much for your help!)


	5. Pandemonium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The impossible is made possible twice over; Margeurite pays the price for her actions; Tréville has to rewrite a few theories.
> 
> Basically, they're barely out of the shell and they're already causing catastrophic upheaval.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kyele, I found the update! Turns out it actually was in the attic, sitting by Don't Go Breakin' My Heart's!
> 
> Descriptions of characters and their dragons are still accepted--I need a few for the next chapter, actually. I need a Fire Element's Rider and eight other hatchlings and their Riders as well. I can do it on my own, but I want to involve all of you in this story since without you this would not be anything but a scribble in a notebook :D
> 
> On that note, wtf is going on?! Let's find out...(also, I promise the hatchling is not a Pokemon.)

Despite his strangely calm, focused thoughts, Athos is still relieved to be excused from the hatching; he needs time to delve into his mind and scour for the source of this sudden order.

Meditation has never worked for Athos if he sits still, so he resorts to more aimless wandering about the tents. Whispers follow him, loud enough to repel anyone who thinks to approach, so he does not have to worry about any of that nonsense. In slow increments, he retreats from his conscious mind, leaving his feet to walk autonomously around the festival grounds. As he slips, so do the tents, until all Athos can see are his garrison quarters.

The mindscape is not as he had left it. Where there were overturned chairs, shattered bottles of wine, ripped sheets, and broken swords, there is now a perfectly made bed standing on a scrubbed floor, with everything set in perfect rightness. Athos slowly turns in a circle, examining every constructed piece, numb with shock.

He has not done this. The only one who could is--was-- _is_?--

Athos nearly trips over his own feet in his haste to reach the door. Throwing it open, he sees--nothing but impenetrable fog.

Yet it is a vast improvement to the field of forget-me-nots reduced to a wasteland of ash and bone. If there is even the slightest chance that she has somehow survived...

"Anne?" Athos' voice cracks on her name; he has not spoken it aloud, not even here, in nearly five years. "Anne?"

Even if hope has begun to flutter in his chest on phoenix's wings, Athos does not completely expect a response of any kind. Yet there is a shadow looming through the fog the size of a fully-grown dragon...Athos' eyes fill with tears...

And suddenly the entire festival is alight with screams.

Athos gives an involuntary growl at the interruption before he comes to his senses. He turns on his heel and pinpoints the earth-shattering commotion at the Nesting Enclosure. Every festival-goer is sprinting towards it, fearful of what could have gone so very wrong, and Athos pushes through them, using his pauldron as a sort of small battering ram. Thankfully he is not too far from the enclosure and reaches the gates within a few minutes.

The guards do not notice him at first, so fixed are they on the King's pavilion. Dread fills Athos' chest, causing him to shout loudly enough for even their distracted ears to hear over the din. They allow him entrance as quickly as possible so as not to encourage any of the other festival-goers to break past them.

"What's going on?" Athos demands of them.

The guard to his left reports, still pale with shock, "T-the Queen, sir! Her Majesty--has formed a Bond with one of the Whisperer's hatchlings!"

Now Athos' face drains of color. Only Kings and unmarried Queens can form Bonds; it is not in any way fair or right in his opinion, but that does not change the fact that the Spanish Queen will now undoubtedly be accused of purposely arranging this to attempt an escape from her marriage. Her open-mouthed surprise, however genuine, will not be taken into account. The consequences of this event will scar both France and Spain.

Athos hazards a step forward, though he has no idea what he can possibly do to remedy this situation. But his foot slides against something that gives an indignant squawk.

Immediately Athos retreats, eyes snapping down to a metallic grey hatchling glaring up at him with every fiber of its small body. In its tiny jaws is a decent-sized piece of a crystalline shell with a thick streak of red painted across it.

"Pardon me," Athos says, side-stepping it and continuing his hopeless pursuit.

He covers a little more than ten steps before the hatchling squeaks. Rider's instincts have him turning to check if the hatchling is well. It is; if anything, its brown eyes are alight with eager anticipation as it trots to him like a dog bringing a gift for its master.

What does this infant want? Athos waits as patiently as he can, idly rubbing his ear as the people continue to explode with incoherent questions and shouts around him. Once the hatchling reaches him, it flaps its wings a few times in order to balance on its hindlegs; when this is accomplished, it takes its piece of shell into its paws and speaks.

"Athos?"

Uncomprehending panic surges through Athos like a tidal wave. He stamps it down with facts: he had been in this enclosure just yesterday, with Tréville--the hatchling's precious keeper--yelling his name. Of course with Tréville occupied on the pavilion, it would seek out anything familiar, including a voice or a name. As Tréville said: hatchlings hear more than humans think.

Composure regained, Athos inclines his head. "You found him."

A draconic smile accompanies the spark in the hatchling's eyes. Before Athos knows what is happening, he is being offered the shard.

His mouth dries as the panic returns with gusto. "I,"--he clears his throat--"I am not the one you seek, little one. I cannot form another Bond."

The hatchling's expression turns into confusion. Walking unsteadily forward on its hindlegs, it pushes the shard against Athos' boot and chirps with finality, "Athos."

Athos sighs through his nose. Perhaps if the hatchling has irrefutable proof that it cannot succeed in forming a Bond with him, it will seek its true Rider. Decision made, Athos crouches so he is almost eye-level with it. He takes the shard with careful fingers, despite knowing of its durability.

"You can try," he says, "but I must warn you that you will not succeed. I do not want to hurt you over a mistake."

The hatchling seems to ignore his words in favor of pawing at his knee. Anne often did this as a hatchling, so Athos knows what it wants. He offers his free arm for the hatchling to climb up. It trills happily and does so, ending on his shoulders, curling around the back of his neck like a living scarf.

Athos stands carefully, not wanting to dislodge the tiny creature; its Rider will not be at all pleased if he breaks its fragile bones. Fortunately the hatchling is settled quite securely across his shoulders, wings folded into its sides after a brief stretch. It's still trilling--a dragon's way of purring--which causes Athos' lips to twitch into an involuntary smile.

"Surely you feel your other half elsewhere," he says.

The hatchling tilts its head at him. "Athos."

Athos huffs a quiet laugh. "It is remarkable that you can speak a word fresh out of the shell, but you must know others. What of Tréville?"

The hatchling snorted, smoke rising from its nostrils. A Fire Element's trait.

"Athos," it snaps, as if arguing a counterpoint.

Alright then. Athos gestures to the turmoil at the pavilion and says, "I must report to the King and Queen. Is there anything you wish to ask of me before I let you down?"

"Athos!" the hatchling shrieks, making Athos' ear ring. It sounds almost shocked. "Athos, Athos,  _Athos_!"

Athos sighs audibly then. "You will follow me regardless," he surmises. Indeed he receives another, happier "Athos!" in reply.

He cannot risk this hatchling being trampled should the crowd break from the stands. Every moment that passes unchecked, the people become twice as restless; one thing he can do is escort the King and Queen from the enclosure, making sure to also take the Comtesse de Rochefort with them so they can sort this mess. Perhaps the hatchling simply had a relapse in judgment; there have been cases when the King has been approached due to a Rider's loyalty to France and by proxy him.

Athos spares one last glance at the hatchling. It is possible one of the Candidates have a misplaced admiration for him, causing this little one to temporarily mistake him. An easy problem that can be sorted after everything has calmed somewhat.

A new purpose in his step, Athos strides towards the pavilion with the hatchling still wrapped around him. He forcefully ignores the outright gaping of those who see him.

"Your Majesties," he calls. He only gains the King's terrified attention; the Queen is still trembling over the hatchling resting its head against her chest. "We must get you to the safety of the palace!" he also orders a guard to retrieve the Comtesse; after some irritated repeating, the pavilion bursts into action.

A few Musketeers stay behind to oversee the crowds, hatchlings, and Candidates; hopefully they can contain the enclosure without harming anyone.

 

The hatchling has a strong grip despite its lack of developed talons. Athos takes a horse to follow the Royal Carriage back to the Louvre, and it does not so much as shift on his shoulders.

Tréville has been glancing at Athos the entire ride; like the looks, he ignores them. A problem for later.

As soon as the doors had closed, the King is rounding on Her Majesty.

His shouts reverberate off the walls: "What were you thinking?! Rochefort taught you how to treat dragons! Now everybody thinks you do not want to be married to me!"

The Queen, now cradling the hatchling like a babe, looks to the Comtesse. "I did not wish for this, Sire. It was Rochefort's wife who should have become his Rider."

Athos' jaw clenches.  _His_. A dragon's gender is impossible to tell until adolescence or it speaks beforehand and reveals it. This hatchling has not said a word as far as Athos knows, which means...

"Your Majesty, the Bond has already formed," Tréville says, "I am afraid there is no safe method of severing it now."

The Comtesse falls to her knees. "Your Majesty," she says to the King, "Please do not blame the Queen. It was my doing and I acted of my own accord. I-I told him to go."

Athos' eyes sweep to Rochefort; the man stares his wife down in rising anger. As if she can sense the heat of his gaze, the Comtesse shrinks further into herself.

The King bares his teeth, showing a fraction of his draconic heritage as he roars, "How could you do such a thing?! You humiliated your King today and possibly started fresh conflict with Spain!"

The Comtesse trembles, stammers, "I-I offer n-no excuse, Sire. I accept--any punishment you-you wish to sentence. Only know that I acted out of loyalty to Her Majesty. I...I wished to protect the Queen."

Tréville briefly closes his eyes. Athos understands the Comtesse's reasoning--Rochefort is not nearly as subtle as he thinks--though he knows her solution was a poorly-thought one. He also knows that the King does not have a shred of mercy in him at the moment, and nothing anyone can say will stop this.

"Rochefort?" the King snaps.

Rochefort replies steadily, "I leave her fate to your good judgment, Majesty."

"Then she will be hanged on my command. Get her out of my sight!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MARGEURITE MY DARLING I AM SO SORRY BUT I HAD TO


	6. Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief interlude in which things settle, to an extent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Update Tuesday.
> 
> So Don't Go Breakin' My Heart is still on hiatus, because whenever I try to update that I get a bad feeling in my chest because psychotic people cannot be written right now. My grandma's still holding on, but not for long, we don't think. Strangers is still on-going, and I am going to be working on the next chapter today as well. That has no fixed schedule, however.
> 
> If I had to describe Margeurite's feelings right now though...anyone ever read The Pit and the Pendulum by Edgar Allan Poe? The first opening sentences are a pretty accurate rendition.
> 
> Anyway, I'm rambling again. Thank you very much for you patience; let's get to the dragons.

Margeurite is swept away without another word. The Queen stares after her in horror, helpless with the rest of them. At least, Athos muses, she has the comfort of her hatchling's affection. This one is quite tactile, often taking a few stray wisps of his Rider's golden hair and twirling it in his paws or nuzzling whatever part of her he can reach from his cradled position. He may not have been intended for the Queen, but he clearly adores her already.

It occurs to Athos that, because of her Bond, Her Majesty is by default under the protection of the d'Herblay bloodline; Margeurite's plan is foolish, but it does accomplish its intended goal to a fair extent.

As if agreeing with him, the hatchling around his shoulders chirps "Athos" with what sounds almost like approval. However, this also puts all eyes on Athos.

The King's rage is far from over, only worsening at the sight of an apparently Grounded Lieutenant carrying a dragon about. Pointing an accusing finger, he shouts, "And you! I thought you could not form another Bond! Did you dare refuse my generous offer under false pretenses?!"

Tréville steps in before Athos can get a word out. "Your Majesty, I am sure that Athos' case is one of simple mistaken identity, which you yourself have experienced many times. I suggest we sort out what happens next with the Queen before anything else."

Rochefort decides the man has had enough fun doing his job for him and steps closer to the King. "I suggest you remember your place, Whisperer. This matter has passed into politics, and therefore His Majesty's authority. He will decide what is relevant."

"Thank you, Rochefort," the King replies sincerely, "At least  _somebody_ around here speaks sense!"

To his surprise, both hatchlings in the room snarl.

To everyone's surprise, the Queen's hatchling speaks: "This King annoys me, Ana."

Silence looms like a heavy cloud.

The hatchling speaks again. "I am to be the Queen's companion. Can I not voice my own opinion?"

Instead of a child's voice, this hatchling speaks with that of a grown man's; although after the events of today Athos cannot bring himself to be too amazed at this development, it is certainly unprecedented. And, Athos has to admit, his opinion is likely shared by everyone in the chamber, even Rochefort.

That does not excuse him from the King himself, who rounds on him with furious intent. On her part, the Queen instinctively curls protectively around her hatchling despite the fear written in her eyes.

Yet again Rochefort intervenes, staring down the bold hatchling with his frigid gaze. "You are addressing your King, infant. I suggest you conduct yourself with respect."

Athos has seen most hatchlings cower before this stare; this one does not, and neither, he finds, does his nestmate, who is still glaring at Rochefort with twice the intensity it had given Athos earlier. (For some reason he feels a rush of vindictive pride.)

"While it is true he has the scent of a powerful sire about him," the Queen's hatchling responds nonchalantly, "I refuse to acknowledge him as my sovereign unless my Ana expressly wishes. Otherwise, I shall see him as nothing more than what he is: a petulant child wearing a crown."

The Queen gasps, and Athos looks straight at Tréville. Either this hatchling needs to shut his mouth or this entire situation will become even more of a catastrophe. And all the infant does is stretch languidly and take another strand of the Queen's hair to play with, as if he has said nothing of importance.

Louis is spluttering, face scarlet. Rochefort looks to the Queen.

She clears her throat and gently begins, "Now...ah..."

The dragon has not been named. He acknowledges this with vigor. "Oh, you have not named me! I should like something that starts with an 'A', if it pleases you. That way we can share a letter!"

For all the tension in the room, Athos, the Queen, and Tréville all fight smiles at this whimsical idea. When one spends enough time in the company of dragons, it becomes difficult to remain serious in the face of a hatchling's bright eyes.

He wrinkles his snout in the ensuing quiet; evidently the Queen is going through a mental list of names, none of which are to his liking. Louis attempts to say something, but both Athos and Tréville stop him; naming a hatchling is vital if they do not wish for it to have any feral traits. Rochefort himself cannot object to this.

Finally, the hatchling perks up. "Wait! That one, I like that one...yes! I shall be called Aramis."

His tiny chest puffs with gallant pride at this announcement, though the effect is sorely lacking when he is tugging at the Queen's hair and still being held like a babe.

The Queen's eyes shine through her grave demeanor. "Then, Aramis," she says, "I must tell you that my husband is my King, and therefore yours. Apologize to His Majesty immediately."

Aramis sighs through his nose, as if put upon. Nevertheless, he crawls up onto the Queen's shoulder and perches there as a cat would. With a dramatic bow, he says with deliberate politeness, "Do forgive me, Your Majesty, for calling you annoying and a petulant child wearing a crown."

Tréville and Athos take deep breaths, both relieved and close to smiling once again. Aramis will certainly be a refreshing presence.

Rochefort hums, saying, "That will suffice for now. Your Majesty?"

 

 

The hatching cannot be stopped just because the Queen has suddenly found herself attached to a dragon. Amidst the confusion, a scribe hastily records each Bond as he hears them, or--if anyone wishes to be  _helpful_ \--as it is directly told to him. This is a solemn tradition completed every Festival, though now it feels like a ransom note.

His recordings are as follows:

_Hatching Festival of Paris, France, in the Year of Our Lord 1630_

_Musketeer Candidate Mme. Alice Clerbeaux, Widow, to Earth Element "Porthos"_

_Her Majesty the Queen, to_ (here the hatchling's name and type is blank)

_Red Guard Candidate M. Boisrenard, to Hope Sigil "Bernajoux"_

_Musketeer Candidate Mlle. Bernadette Passant, to Fire Element "Quixote"_

_Red Guard Candidate M. Cahusac, to Earth Element "Jeanne"_

_Musketeer Candidate M. Jacques Chevalier, to Wind Element "Invictus"_

_Red Guard Candidate M. Pierre Grenoire, to Fire Element "Hades"_

_Red Guard Candidate M. Sébastien Grenoire, Sibling, to Fire Element "Pluto"_

_Red Guard Candidate M. Antoine Gris, to Wind Element "Heracles"_

_Musketeer Candidate_ _M. Raoul Michon, to Metal Element "Marie"_

One hatchling, the third of the Whisperer's Nest, is unaccounted for; the scribe fears it has been lost in the confusion. Another, butterscotch gold with undeveloped back spikes, increased the crowd's hysteria by taking flight after one cursory sweep of the Candidates.

Fortunately, the Musketeers manage to calm the crowd after all is said and done. General Larroque is instrumental to this, pointing out the happy faces of the new Riders and playing up the King's sense of duty and responsibility. Whatever will happen will not happen without the King's explicit consent, and what the King does, he does for the sake of France and for her protection. Should anything come to light, the people will be the first to know (and here she gives her personal guarantee). She was always blessed with an eloquent tongue; many say it is the influence of her books.

Tentative peace restored, the crowd cheers instead of howls as the new Riders present their dragons to them. Rider Clerbeaux, however, cannot lift hers; Porthos is very large for a hatchling, already too heavy for human strength. That does not drain Porthos' enthusiasm, however, as he prances around under the attention, trilling happily when a child reaches for his head to pet him.

The guards and scribe breathe a collective sigh of relief. For now, at least, all is well.

 

Louis focuses on the small problem first, too overwhelmed at present for the matter of his wife and her beast. His scowl is trained on Athos, a facsimile of authority itself but supported with Rochefort's silent, malicious promise beside him. Athos strands a little straighter under the scrutiny.

"And what do you have to say for yourself, _Lieutenant_?" the King spits.

"I request that Your Majesty give this hatchling the opportunity to attempt a Bond," Athos replies, "The inevitable disappointment will deter it and it will seek its true Rider."

There is something in Athos' calm demeanor that soothes the King's expression into an indifferent mask. Athos considers it an invaluable method, the only thing he carries from his days as a nobleman without disdain.

"Very well," the King says, motioning to the doors, "Return as soon as you have sent the creature back to the enclosure."

Athos bows as much as he can with his small burden and dutifully exits into the gardens.

Louis takes a deep breath, mere scraps of his control pieced together. "Anne," he says at length, "tell me the truth: did you want this to happen?"

Aramis at last seems to have a moment of intelligence, for he allows the Queen to speak for both of them. Anne chooses her words carefully; she looks the King in the eye while she does so, that he will not think she is preparing to lie.

"Your Majesty," she ventures, "I am as loyal to you and to France as I have ever been, and always shall be. This country has become my home, and I am proud to stand at your side to watch over it. Margeurite had indeed been acting alone in giving Aramis to me. For whatever reason, she thought I needed the personal protection of a dragon. Rest assured that I wish nothing more than to remain in our marriage."

Here Anne pauses. Louis almost thinks she falters, something he has never seen her do. Then she continues, more subdued, "However...while I did not expect this to happen, now that it has, I--I would not be truthful if I said I did not want it. The Bond is," she searches for the correct word, "ineffable. I have heard reports from the Riders under your command, but I never thought it would be quite like this."

Tréville's mouth quirks. Indeed Her Majesty has never looked so peaceful or sure of herself as she does with Aramis on her shoulder.

Louis processes her speech. "I believe you," he replies quietly. The room itself seems to let out a breath. "But there is the question of what to do with this-- _your_ dragon." Anne smiles at his correction. "Tréville said he is of a notable bloodline."

Tréville nods, "Healers are also exceedingly rare outside of the d'Herblays. Should France ever enter conflict of a plague, Your Majesty's Aramis will be needed."

"I shall not have you put among dying commoners or, God forbid, a battlefield!" Louis exclaims.

( _Forgive me if I am wrong, querida, but is that not_ your  _decision to make?_

_Aramis, please.)_

Anne inclines her head, "I go where you wish, Your Majesty, not a step further."

Rochefort interjects, "An exception can of course be made for Her Majesty. However, a test of loyalty should be presented to the people. It is a sad truth, but the Queen's Spanish blood cannot so easily be forgotten, especially in these circumstances."

"As always, you are right, Rochefort. A test--" Louis is interrupted by one of the doors opening. The sight that welcomes them immediately puts Tréville on alert.

"What is it?" he demands.

Athos is as pale as a sheet, sweat glistening on his forehead. His reply is made in a hoarse tone: "Whisperer...the hatchling's sire. Did the villagers say of what line was he born?"

Tréville, still tense as if expecting conflict, answers curtly, "They said he came from old Gascon blood. D'Artagnan was the name. Why?"

The pitter-patter of four feet scurrying across the floor draws everyone's attention. Suddenly, there is the grey hatchling sitting on Athos' boot.

"D'Artagnan," it says, testing how it sounds, "and I am the last?" Tréville, shell-shocked, nods. "I will wear the name proudly. Thank you, Athos."

All eyes return to said lieutenant, who looks as if he will vomit.

"He," Athos swallows bile, "he is mine."

 

 

Athos had actually gotten sick, but let us start with his closing the doors and traipsing the short distance to the gardens.

Once in a fairly secluded spot among the hedges, he carefully pries the hatchling from his shoulders and sets it on the ground. Just as it lets out a scared version of his name, Athos kneels down and takes the egg shard from his belt.

"You are undoubtedly of Gascony," he says, holding it in the space between them, "Tréville has said that giving a piece of their shell is how Gascon dragons announce their intentions."

"Athos?"

Athos shakes his head, "I will accept this temporarily," he emphasizes the last word when the hatchling perks up, "and will return it once you have seen your evidence."

The hatchling snorts, smoke once again fuming from his nostrils. " _Athos_ ," he says, as if to say,  _'stop being an idiot.'_ Athos merely raises an eyebrow in response and pulls up his sleeve, revealing his Marking Area; all Riders have one, revealed when their dragon stakes their claim.

His Anne's forget-me-not is barely present; sorrow and disbelief flood him. He had seen that shadow through the fog! Who else could it have been?

The hatchling snaps, "Athos!" returning his attention to the matter at hand.

"You see," Athos says, "I cannot Bond with you."

The hatchling huffs, affronted. "Athos," it grumbles.

"Fine. If you insist on doing this, I will not take responsibility for what happens. You will return to the enclosure and find your Rider. Do you understand?"

"Athos."

Good enough.

"Alright," Athos murmurs, and presents his arm to the hatchling.

There is no hesitation in the hatchling's step as it approaches the proffered wrist, not even a twitch in opening its jaws. Small but very sharp teeth insert into the flesh seamlessly, right under the forget-me-not.

And Athos is forced into his mindscape.

Neatness, like before, only now there is not even a wall blocking whatever waits outside. His body spasms as the mist clears, not to a scorched field but a farm settled at the base of beautiful mountains.

It is warm;  _he_ is warm. And he feels...whole.

_I told you: you are not going anywhere without me._

Reality crashes back into focus, only it is not the abrupt sense of vertigo that has Athos scrambling towards the nearest patch of grass to empty his stomach.

"Athos! What's wrong?"

It--he,  _he_ now has words because of their link. Athos has formed a Bond with another dragon. Of all the ways to betray Anne's memory, he never thought he would commit such an atrocity. How could his soul accept this hatchling so readily? How could he accept this at all?

Athos groans, a pitiful sound, wiping his mouth with a shaky hand. He will have to report this to the King. Face his comrades with another companion. They will finally see him for what he is, but worse, as he is now a traitor to their kind. No Rider should be able to do this, not after half of themselves has died.

Fuck, fuck,  _fuck_ , but the dragon feels so vibrant and adoring. Innocence of youth, unscarred and nothing like Anne-- _Anne_ _, what have I done_ \--coats every part of his half, spreading it like a balm over the howling monster in Athos' chest. It would be so easy to accept what this little one is offering, to embrace this chance whole-heartedly, and the staggering strength of the temptation shakes Athos to the core. He truly is despicable.

"Don't."

Air shoves into Athos' lungs. Slowly, he cranes his neck to face the dragon. They are mere centimeters apart now.

"Don't do this," the creature implores, eyes hard. His words are enforced with mental echoes, as if he means to pound them into his Rider's skull. "Not again. You are mine. Accept me or not, I am here now, and I swear to you Athos, I am not going anywhere. Blame me if you have to, but not yourself." when no response is given, internal or otherwise, the dragon snorts, tossing his head. "I need a name. I would like you to give me one."

And so Athos and D'Artagnan begin.

 

 General Larroque wastes no time in embracing Alice as soon as she has the chance. Samara nudges Porthos, commenting on his size while the hatchling laughs, claiming to be ticklish on his side.

"Welcome to the Musketeers," Larroque grins, holding Alice's hands.

Alice's mind is still buzzing with her Bond; none of the stories come close to the sensation of mutuality locking her and her Porthos together. He is a kaleidoscope of genuine affection and emotion, taking in everything about the world and learning all he can about it from his senses and Alice's own memories. The fears she'd harbored before Porthos' shell broke are floating somewhere far-off, something to be confronted later, but not alone. She will never be alone again; the thought would have been daunting if it had been anyone else but her hatchling.

She says, "Thank you," and means it.

 

 

 "I don't follow," Louis says.

Tréville wishes he could be more alarmed at the situation, but the fact of the matter is he is relieved that Athos will not die an insane, broken man. Also, his scholar's fingers are itching for something with which to catalog this momentous event; already he is pondering questions pertaining to the impact this will have on Rider-Dragon relationships, what the Rider's soul actually does when a Bond is severed, can this happen with everyone or is it a certain type? What about the vestiges of the previous Bond? Are the pieces still there? Does Athos bear Anne's Mark, or has D'Artagnan's eradicated it? What of the dragon himself, are there any effects due to the former Bond? Was their joining painful in any way? What about--

"Tréville?"

He clears his throat. "I have never heard of this before. Perhaps, if they are amenable, I could examine their connection?" his own Rider's soul allows him to form shallow Bonds on a daily basis; it is an ability no one else can accomplish, which has singled him out as 'Whisperer' instead of 'Candidate'. Looking into this one is an easy task.

Louis replies, "Tomorrow. For now, I believe," looking at Anne, "we should speak to Margeurite."

The Queen's grin is wide and lovely, added to by Aramis' approving trill.

Rochefort, however, does not share their enthusiasm. "Your Majesty, is that wise?"

"Come now, Rochefort. I am sure she longs for the comfort of her husband--" (Athos feels D'Artagnan's disgust as if it is his own) "--and the forgiveness of her Queen."

But when the King sends for the poor woman, a wide-eyed guard returns instead.

"The Comtesse de Rochefort has disappeared!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hang on, my phone's ringing...
> 
> It's the actual plot to this story. Says she'll be here next chapter, and that her name is Constance. Hold onto your butts.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Tuesdays are Update Days, unless I finish a chapter early!


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